Durability
by trufflemores
Summary: 5x14, "New New York" reaction fic. Blaine boxes to relieve stress. New York is stressful. When it gets to be a little too much, Kurt is there to help pick up the pieces. Klaine. COMPLETE.


**Disclaimer**: I do not own Glee or any of its characters; Ryan Murphy and Co. hold that honor. I'm simply writing this for fun, not profit.

The punching bag sways underneath Blaine's fists as he pummels it. He's been at the gym for over an hour already, but even though his arms are trembling and he should have taken a break twenty minutes ago, he can't fall out of the rhythm, a start-stop pulse that runs through him as assuredly as the blood in his veins. He strikes savagely, laying into the bag until it rattles the chains. He feels wrecked, borderline unstable as he goes at it again, and again, and again, willing his mind to go blank and his body to sort out its needs.

He loves living in New York, but it's a lot more stress than even he anticipated. There are countless things that can – and do – go wrong on a daily basis. Even a seemingly straightforward schedule seems bound to fail whenever anything that isn't under his direct control is factored into it. The subways are never on time when he needs them to be, his coffee order is frequently bland or grainy or just _wrong, _and often times even walking is a hazard when strangers are liable to bump him hard enough to make him stumble and nearly twist an ankle.

It doesn't get better once he's off the streets: if anything, it's even more stressful at NYADA, and he's starting to fear that he will _never _adjust to being criticized by everyone that he comes into contact with. Kurt has always been able to give as good as he gets, dishing out as much scorn as they throw at him, but Blaine – he doesn't want to be like that, doesn't want to _dislike _people on sight and slowly learn to trust them once he's sure that their motives are only slightly impure.

He wants to enjoy himself, but it's hard. New York was supposed to be easy: living with Kurt and his friends in an apartment without any parental supervision sounded _heavenly _on paper, but the reality is that he and Kurt aren't _alone _in their apartment. They have four other loud, theatrical, occasional hysterical roommates to cope with. Uninterrupted make out sessions are rare; actual sex even rarer. Blaine won't be the first to admit that he _misses _Kurt, misses having the time to take his time and enjoy it rather than hurrying just to relieve some of the tension, but he knows from the heavy, exasperated looks that Kurt gives him over the heads of their friends' that he is feeling the same way.

Even blowing off steam at the gym isn't as effective, he realizes with a surge of dismay as he punches and punches and punches and still remains frustratingly aware of his surroundings. He doesn't know how much longer he dares keep at it: if he's too exhausted to move, then it'll be harder to get home, especially via subway. Nausea twists in his stomach at the thought, and he attacks the bag with renewed vigor, willing his mind to settle enough that he can sleep that night without feeling like his chest is going to collapse from sheer strain.

He's already panting like a racehorse, struggling to keep his form as he goes at the bag. Despite his best efforts, the blows are weakening, barely shaking the bag as he loses momentum. He almost drops to his knees as exhaustion settles into his bones, despair creeping into his thoughts once more as he hugs the bag, breathing shakily against it.

Kurt belongs in New York, and Blaine belongs with _Kurt, _but New York is overwhelming. New York is being surrounded by strangers and never knowing where everything is. New York is unexpected problems being the rule and efficiency the exception. New York is a broken air conditioner and still those strange, inexplicable noises throughout the apartment that made him want to huddle deeper in his own skin because _God, _it's terrifying to be awake and alone at two AM. New York is congestion and traffic and countless crowds and always being lost to some degree. New York is Kurt's home; but, mired in his own despair, Blaine realizes that it isn't _his._

Unable to accept the alternatives – moving back to Ohio or striking out on his own elsewhere – Blaine slowly releases the punching bag, staggering back a step before carefully peeling the gloves off his hands. He doesn't know why he thought coming to the gym would help. It wasn't a foolproof method in Ohio; how he expected it to work in New York, he doesn't know.

Impotent rage wells up inside him at the thought of his own helplessness, and before he can stop himself he lashes out, three quick punches that leave his hands aching and raw. It feels good, the white-out pain that leaves him reeling in place. Before he can think better of it, he does it again, only stopping once his knuckles are burning and blood is gathering at the tips of his fingers.

He swallows, numb with surprise, before staggering away from the bag and sitting down on the bench. Carefully he unwinds the red bandages from his hands, a thin whine of dismay building in his throat before he swallows that back, too.

_You can do this, _he tells himself, forcing calming breaths into his lungs as he rinses his hands out in the sink, hissing at the heightened sting of cold water against exposed skin. Biting back curses as he dries them, he gathers up the remainder of his gear and slings it over one shoulder before making his way outside, grateful to be alone. He doesn't want to consider having to explain his impulsivity to anyone; he still can't properly categorize half of the emotions swimming through his head.

Home, he thinks, filled to the brim with fatigue, is a good place to be.

. o .

Blaine is so ready to sink into bed at Kurt's side that he doesn't see him when he first walks in the door. He gets his coat and shoes off before he notices the figure lounging back on a wire chair in the shadows, almost tripping over his own feet in surprise as he freezes and blurts out, "Kurt. What are you doing up?"

"I was worried when you didn't answer my texts," Kurt says, voice a little high with nerves but mostly soft as he rises to his feet. "I saw your note," he adds. Some of the trepidation seeps out of Blaine's own shoulders; he doesn't want to think about Kurt wondering despairingly where he is at one o'clock in the morning. _At the gym. Be back soon._

Squinting at the clock on the stove, he realizes that it's closer to two, guilt tightening in his throat as he looks back at Kurt, unbent and relaxed in the dimness of the apartment. "You shouldn't have waited up for me," he chides. "I could have been gone for hours." Self-consciously, he reaches up to brush his fingers over the tangled nest of his curls, keenly aware of their disarray post-shower. Even after living with Kurt for three months, it's still a shock, still an unpleasantness that he does his best to avoid.

Instead of lashing out at him for leaving, Kurt regards him calmly, sidling closer after a moment and letting his gaze flicker over Blaine once slowly, cursorily. "Did it help?" he asks at last, holding out his hands for Blaine to take.

Blaine hesitates before extending his arms and letting Kurt's fingers slip between his, already bruising. "Oh, honey," Kurt murmurs, and Blaine's fingers twitch, aching to retract. He doesn't like showing his imperfections; compared to Kurt's austerity and familiarity with the city, he feels caught in a permanent cycle of hopelessly-lost and unwelcome. The warm, firm grip of Kurt's fingers between his keep him from pulling away and running until the air shudders through his lungs, from running all the way back to Ohio, maybe. Instead, he lets himself be towed to the tiny kitchen that and leans a hip against the counter when Kurt releases him, fishing around in the cabinets for something instead.

"How long have you been waiting?" he asks, needing to know. Kurt has work in the morning, but he's punched all the fight out of him, the subway ride draining the last of his motivation, and he can't bring himself to argue with Kurt when he knows that Kurt won't budge on the matter, anyway.

"About an hour," Kurt says, passing him a glass of water. He stares at it in bewilderment for a moment before Kurt presses a small white pill into his hand. His eyes are cool and almost sad in the dark; Blaine doesn't meet them for long before he takes the pill and swallows it without question.

Kurt doesn't ask what happened, what pushed him over the edge. Blaine doesn't speak as Kurt wets a cloth and carefully dabs at the backs of his knuckles, already sore and broken open. He tries not to make any noise at all when Kurt swipes them with disinfectant, a soft sigh slipping past his hold when Kurt presses an apologetic kiss to the corner of his mouth.

It's so quiet in the apartment, so easy to tangle his hand in the fine hairs at the base of Kurt's neck and pull him in for a proper kiss, left hand still flat against the counter. Kurt lets him for a moment, curling his arms around Blaine's shoulder as he does so before breaking away gently.

"You okay?" he asks, resting his forehead against Blaine's. It's a comforting pressure, a familiar closeness that makes Blaine's eyelids flutter shut of their own accord as he nods slightly.

"Yeah," he says huskily, clearing his throat a little as he curls his hands around Kurt's waist carefully. "Yes. I'm okay. I'm very okay."

Kurt hums, fingers brushing against his shoulders slightly before he releases him, Blaine stepping back as he does so. Wetting a cloth, Kurt requests, "Give me your hands."

Blaine obliges, wincing as he dabs at the cuts before reaching up and pulling out a roll of gauze. "You can't do this to yourself," Kurt says softly, unrolling a strip and winding it around Blaine's fingers slowly. "I know it's hard. It was hard for me, too. But this –" he gives Blaine's hands a pointed squeeze at the wrists, "this doesn't make it go away."

Staring at him, blue-green eyes calm but serious, Blaine replies, "It was a mistake. It won't happen again."

Kurt tightens the bandage around one hand, eliciting another wince, before moving to his left hand. Drawing in a deep breath to fortify himself, Kurt lets it go before responding. "The first weeks are the hardest. Trust me, I didn't think I was in the right place until the Winter Showcase. And then I realized–" he shrugs, almost imploring, almost whimsical as he finishes, "that I was meant to be on a stage. I can't accept anything less than that. Sometimes – sometimes all you _can _do is focus on the goal. And it can be really, _really _hard." He tightens the bandage on that hand, taking both Blaine's wrapped hands in his own. "But I know you can do this. Okay?"

Blaine swallows. "Okay," he echoes quietly. Something stills within him when Kurt smiles, faint and almost sad, before tugging him towards their bedroom. Blaine follows wordlessly, stumbling a little in the dark apartment that Kurt knows so well.

And it is hard. The thought of facing everything that he dreads in the morning settles heavily in his stomach.

But turning onto his side and shuffling closer to Kurt, feeling the gentle curve of his back under his hand as Kurt's own slips under his own soft gray t-shirt, thumb warming tiny circles against his hip, Blaine feels calmer. More capable. Less breakable, somehow.

Kurt is his anchor and Kurt is so _strong_, but he can be strong, too. Strong _enough_.

Together, they'll be fine. So long as he has Kurt, everything else will fall into place. Eventually.


End file.
